


You Be The Anchor

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, fear toxin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: A snapshot of each of the Batboys, and their reactions to fear toxin.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [А ты будешь якорем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921125) by [timmy_failure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmy_failure/pseuds/timmy_failure)



The clock has just ticked past four and Damian is curled in on himself, jammed into the space between the side table and the wall of the hallway. 

The lights are off, not even a line of yellow coming from under the doorway. But the sky outside is cloud-blanketed, stormy grey-blue. Moonless, from what Damian can make out through the window. His eyes feel sandy and sore, but he can’t seem to blink them properly. 

He’s wrapped himself loosely in one of the blankets from his bedroom, because he can’t stop shivering. He wedges himself harder, bruisingly, against the wooden leg of the lamp table. It’s– a safe place, he reminds himself. He’s got his back to the wall, can properly watch entrances and exits without being immediately seen. He’s even correctly positioned to utilise the antique mirror on the wall, so he can just make out the top of the staircase without moving. 

He shivers again, feeling ill. The effects of Crane’s wretched gas are far more… pervasive than he could have guessed, before experiencing it first hand.

And he can’t– Father is not like Grayson. He already doesn’t. Damian knows that Father will be disappointed in him, in the morning. Which is why he’s in the hallway outside his Father’s room, determined to be close without waking the man. He won’t be weak.

And then, in a few hours, when he knows it’s safe, he will creep back to his bed, and pretend to have slept there peacefully. When it’s safe. When he’s  _sure_.

His limbs are heavy, his eyelids dragging down, but every time he tries to sleep he wakes jerkily, disjointed and confused, heart hammering against his ribcage, loud enough to alert any intruder to his presence. 

And he’s… falling, into the dark, he was supposed to be looking for someone but he wasn’t fast enough, and– “Damian.”

He stirs, eyes flicking open. 

“Damian. I can’t come closer until you drop the knife.”

His father is crouched, posture loose, at the opposite wall. eyes patient and hands steady, folded over his knees. Damian frowns.

And it takes him minutes, Father waiting silently, calmly, for Damian’s fist to uncurl stiffly from the dagger’s hilt. Neither of them break eye contact. He relinquishes his hold slowly, finally, reaches up to drop it to the surface of the lamp table. 

His father shifts forward then, and he hoists Damian into his arms. Settles him against his side. And he says, one hand smoothing the back of short hair, “Are you going to be able to get some sleep, or do you want to go downstairs?”

Damian’s tongue feels glued to the top of his mouth. This is not– his father doesn’t do this– “I–” he says.

And Father nods, wordlessly carrying Damian with him into his bedroom. He doesn’t comment that Damian’s wearing boots. Doesn’t make him take them off, either.

Once they’re both settled on the bed, Damian can stop shivering at last. The sheets are still warm with Father’s body heat, and Father himself lies close, one arm over Damian’s chest. Protective. Not a restraint. And he says, quiet, “I’ll keep you safe, Damian. I promise.”

Damian huffs. He wants to keep _Father_  safe, but it seems imprudent to say so. Instead, he says, voice coming hoarse, “You’re Batman.” 

“Damn straight,” says Father. And then, hesitantly, “I can phone Dick, if you’d like. You know he’d come.”

“That’s alright, Father,” Damian tells him. Closing his eyes and pressing one hand, very carefully, to his father’s chest, palm flat to where the Bat-symbol goes. Because, he’s allowed. And he says, “This will do.”

—————

Jason does not have the patience, tonight, for when he hears a knock at his door. It’s late and whoever’s there is  _knocking_ , meaning that it is someone from the family, but not Bruce or the brat, because neither of them know how to knock, or use doors. Dickie-bird either, come to think of it.

So he’s not especially surprised when he opens his apartment door to a civilian-outfitted Tim Drake, looking tired. 

“Isn’t it a little late for you to be selling cookies, sweetheart?” he says, all mock-concern, but he regrets it almost immediately, taking in the kid’s appearance.

And the kid just says, like he didn’t speak, “Can I come in?”

Jason steps aside, gesturing. Says, “Mi casa es su bolt hole.”

Tim’s lips twitch upright in the world’s smallest, shortest smile, and he says, “Very generous of you.”

And he sits, very tidily, on Jason’s couch. Hands folded in his lap, shoulders stiff, something firm and sad at one side of his mouth. 

So Jason sits on the coffee table, knees close enough to bump Tim’s. Says, “So what’s the word, little bird?”

The kid’s lips purse, briefly white, and he says, slow, like Jason’s dragging it out of him, “Crane got out of Arkham. But he’s back now, and I’m the only one who got dosed.”

Jason says, “Did you–?”

Tim nods, “Administered the antidote at the safe house.” And then, like Jason needs telling, “Doesn’t work fast.”

And Jason sighs, heaving himself off the coffee table. Says, “Stay there,” and goes into his bedroom. He doesn’t turn on the light, fumbles for a minute in the closet and finds his softest, most comfortable jacket by feel. Back in the living room, he half-tosses the jacket over the babybird’s shoulders, asks, “Any injuries I gotta know about?”

“I’m good,” Tim tells him. Still seeming very. Together. But he doesn’t protest the jacket, instead pulling it more tightly around himself. 

Jason half-flops beside him, back onto the couch, and says, doubtful, “You’re sure it’s the regular stuff?”

“I’m sure,” he confirms. Sitting patiently while Jason checks his pulse and pupils. But apart from looking a little pale, a touch unsteady–

“You seem very… chill,” Jason says, and Tim gives a small, tight shrug. But when Jason doesn’t look away, keeps peering into his face, he says, waspishly,

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” and then he sighs, runs a long-fingered hand through his hair to muss it. Badly suppresses a shudder. He says, quiet, “I didn’t want to go back to the apartment, you know?”

And Jason sympathises, he does, which is why he bumps his leg against Tim’s when he says, friendly, “Okay, but you do get that I literally stuck a batarang in your chest, right? And  _this_  is where you pick?”

And Tim fixes Jason under his steady blue gaze. There’s something about the intensity of Tim’s stare that’s always made Jason uneasy, something that usually makes him blink and look away. A kind of blankness, underlying what Jason knows to be a frighteningly sharp brain. But today, he holds Tim’s gaze. 

“Who else do I have?” the kid says, plainly. Too honest. 

And Jason can’t tell if he’s flattered or horrified that Tim trusts him. He decides to shelve that for now, and consider it more comprehensively later. And instead of responding, Jason bumps their thighs together again and says, “You hungry?” 

But hey. He’s always had a soft spot for robins. 

—————

“Okay, if I come closer, are you going to be cool? I wouldn’t ask, it’s just, Alfred’s done some calculations, and he says if I fracture my cheekbone again I won’t be pretty any more.” 

The reply is indistinct. Monosyllabic. And Batman closes his eyes briefly, in the middle of the jump. Feels his heart pounding violently in his chest–

“I know, it’s hard to believe,” Nightwing’s saying, slow and warm and easy, his voice like warm chocolate. “I can’t even visualise a world where I am less than stunning. But Lil Wing– at the risk of sounding like a broken record, you mind if I get a little closer? Take some vitals?”

And Batman’s grateful that Nightwing left his comm unit on, but. Listening, when he’s still minutes away, is not easy.

“I’ll stop the second you tell me, ‘kay?” Nightwing talks quieter, which means the Red Hood’s let him get closer. And, “You trust me, don’t ya Jaybird?”

Indistinct, something like; “Shut up.”

And Batman’s so close now, can hear Nightwing in his ear, the one-sided conversation he’s keeping up. Prepping the antidote, Batman would guess.

Jason’s always hated needles. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs, from the building across from the safe house. Where he can see the light from the window. And he gets closer, hears Nightwing’s, “Ahh yes, the silhouette that warms my heart.” And Batman figures that’s as good an introduction as he’s going to get, so he lifts the window and climbs through the frame. It’s a clean, nearly empty living space, a cheap and serviceable couch, a small kitchenette. The Bat-emergency kit sits open on a low table, phials and bandages spilling out.

Dick– Nightwing suit, sans domino– stands by Jason, who’s wild eyed, nostrils flared and mouth clamped tight, half-in, half-out of his armoured jacket. Dick is finishing pressing a small, brightly coloured bandaid to Jason’s bicep, smoothing it down gently with his gauntleted thumbs. And he says, light, “Hey, B,” and then, to Jason, “Hey, if I try to kiss this better, that’d count as pushing my luck, right?”

In answer, Jason tugs his arm out of his brother’s grip, making an abortive motion to shove him away. But his eyes are on Batman.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, keeps his voice somewhere between Batman and Bruce. But he does take off the cowl, ruffling his hair where he knows it must be sitting flat.

Jason looks away, lips white and pressed together. Bruce can see his hands trembling from across the room. 

Dick, bless him, fills the silence between them like always. “Sprained wrist, I think. But I haven’t had time to look at it yet.” It’s a bad lie, but a kind one. It’s clear that Jason really doesn’t want Dick to touch him. 

“I’ll check it out,” Bruce murmurs, and then, in case that wasn’t obvious enough, “Thank you, Dick.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve got a thing,” says Dick, waving vaguely at the window. He picks up his domino and fixes it back over his face, says quietly, “We’ll catch up soon, yeah Jay?” and gives Bruce a half-smile on his way to the window. “Take care, guys.”

“You too, Dick,” says Bruce, without turning around. And it’s only after the window’s closed that Bruce makes his way closer to Jason.

The boy won’t meet his eyes, looks instead at the floor. But he keeps sneaking these little glances at Bruce through his peripherals. And Bruce says, “Show me your wrist.” 

“It’s nothing,” Jason grates out, still not looking at him. But he does hold out his arm, hesitant, unable to disguise his flinch when Bruce reaches out to examine it. He’s very gentle, carefully checking the range of motion and the flex. Prodding it gingerly to check for swelling. 

And Bruce says, lightly, thumbs pressing into Jason’s freckled forearm, “Do you want to talk?” 

There’s a long pause, a choked “No.” and. When Bruce looks up, Jason’s actually crying. Eyes red, face pinched. 

Bruce feels a swoop of hot embarrassment in his stomach; even as a kid, Jason had hated showing his fear this way. Bruce– Bruce had never cared. But Jason had always seen it as something shameful, something weak. 

“We don’t have to talk,” Bruce tells him, and the kid still won’t even look at him. And he says, low, “Jason.” 

As response, Jason tries to yank his arm from Bruce’s grasp. But Bruce steps forward instead, folding Jason into his arms. 

And Jason struggles, briefly, spits out “ _Let go of me–_ ”

But Bruce stays firm, and, Jason– doesn’t quite shove him. Instead, he just grips Bruce’s cape in one hand, rests the other tight against his chest. Breathes harshly against Bruce’s neck. 

“I hate you,” he says, thickly. Starting to relax his weight.

And Bruce just cups the back of his son’s head, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin behind his ear. And he says, “Yeah,” and, “I got you, Jay. You’re okay.”

—————

Tim sighs, fixing the ice pack over Dick’s cheekbone. Manually lifts Dick’s hand from his side to hold the pack in place. And Dick, smiling a little ruefully, says, “Why the sigh?”

“Just deja vu,” Tim says, “And empathy for Alfred.”

Dick nods, looking mildly miserable but still trying to smile, and Tim suppresses the urge to sigh again. And instead, Tim puts a hand on his back and pushes him gently towards his bedroom, says “C'mon, Dick.”

They’d both showered and changed in the Cave, Dick into boxers and an oversized t-shirt, Tim into a pair of clean sweats. Dick’s hair is still wet. “Ice pack,” Tim reminds him, and Dick starts, puts it back to his face. 

As they round the corner into the hall, Tim’s unable to suppress his smile; Dick’s bedroom door’s already open, light on. Which means they were beaten up here. Admittedly his smile starts to fade a little, when he sees. It’s just Damian, wearing his Snoopy pyjamas and his trademark scowl, arms folded and radiating annoyance. He clicks his tongue and says, “Finally.” 

Dick’s shoulders droop lower, Tim’s hand squeezing tighter, but Damian doesn’t seem to notice. And then;

“What, everybody beat me here?” Jason, also wearing pyjamas (faded Wonder Woman shorts and an ill-fitting Superman shirt) and smelling like cigarette smoke, stands in the doorway, scruffing up his hair with one hand. “After I rushed and everything?”

And Dick, eyes on the floor, says, “You guys really don’t have to-”

“For heavens sake, Grayson,” snaps Damian, ignoring Dick’s very small, but very obvious flinch. And then — Tim has to swallow his shock — Damian steps forward and, in a motion partway between a hug and a shove, gets Dick closer to the bed.

Dick goes with it.

“So we’re pretty much following the ten year old’s lead here?” Jay says, conversationally, while Dick and the demon kid lay side by side, Dick passively following Damian’s demands.

Tim just shrugs, while Damian mutters something about how lucky it is that Grayson’s bed is so stupidly large while the two of them get settled. Stifles a laugh when Damian aggressively positions the ice pack on Dick’s face so it’ll sit properly.

And Tim goes around to the other side of the bed, half-sitting, half-lying at Dick’s back, resting one hand on his side, feeling the unsteady hitch of his breathing under his palm. He frowns.

Meanwhile Jason sits by Damian, leaned against the headrest, legs kicked up on the bed. And Dick is using a surprisingly cooperative Damian as a squeeze-toy, the kid pressed into him pretty much from head to toe. And, while Damian isn’t actively hugging back, it does make Tim wonder what happens when Damian gets dosed with fear toxin.

For minutes, they lay there in silence, the only sounds Dick’s rapid, inconsistent breaths and the occasional sound of fabric shifting.

No one suggests they turn off the lamp.

And after a few moments of this, Dick, voice unsteady, says “Hey– you guys. You guys know how much I love you, right?”

“I think I speak for all of us when I do  _this_ ,” says Jace grimly, leaning over and pinching Dick’s side. Hard. 

He yelps in pain and surprise, arms reflexively tightening around Damian, who says, “Yes, definitely shut your mouth, Grayson.”

And Tim, relatively confident the others can’t see him, pats Dick’s side lightly. Soothingly. 

That’s the last any of them talk for a while, until, whispered; “You think Dad’s okay?”

“He said he’d be quick,” Jason tells him. And then, not unkindly, “Chill out, Dickie. Everything’s good.”

Then, “Too tight,” mumbles the demon brat, shoving halfheartedly at one of Dick’s arms. He apologises and loosens his arms a little, and Tim is still very impressed at what a well-behaved (and surprisingly effective) cuddle-buddy Damian Wayne makes.

And Tim keeps his hand resting on Dick’s side, shifting his weight to get more comfortable; it doesn’t seem like they’ll be going anywhere any time soon. Over Dick’s head, Jason meets his eyes. Waggles his eyebrows expressively and points to Dick, then makes a show of rolling his eyes. 

Tim buries his laugh in his hand, then realises with a start that the assassin baby has fallen asleep, and that Dick, too, seems to have gone into a doze. And Jace mutters, “Tragic.” Folding his arms over his chest and looking up at the ceiling. 

“I’ll say,” Tim agrees quietly. Closing his eyes for a moment. 

And he opens them again when he hears the soft knock on the door, half-sits up. Jason, too, is most of the way off the bed, jaw set, and– 

Bruce opens the door without waiting for an answer, his bulk propped against the frame. He’s obviously fresh out of the Batsuit, a faint crease on his face betraying the line of the cowl. He looks over the room in one easy moment, seems to relax very slightly at what he sees. And he says, “How is he?”

“Afraid,” says Jason, frankly. “But give him a couple hours and he’ll be his usual obnoxious self, talking shit ‘bout how he could ‘score cuddles’ off us or something.”

Bruce nods, says, “Probably.” And, “I didn’t expect you to still be here, Jay.”

Jace gives a one-shouldered shrug, says “Well B, sometimes if the planets align perfectly, I won’t be a  _total_  asshole.”

And Tim– snickers. Both Bruce  _and_ Jason look at him in askance, so he says, still snickering, “Just… Uranus. I’m sorry, please go on.”

Jason throws a pillow at Tim, but Tim thinks he probably missed on purpose. And Bruce, evidently erasing the last 30 seconds from his memory, takes a moment to say; “If there’s a problem, please come and wake me.”

Jace nods while Tim lays down again at Dick’s back. 

“And boys?” says B, from behind the half-closed door. “Thank you.”

There’s the soft click of the door closing behind him, and Dick mumbles something in his sleep. Tim pats his side again, entirely unprepared for Dick, still asleep, to murmur, “ _Timmy_ ,” and tug him flush against his back. 

Tim closes his eyes, feeling Dick’s heartbeat through his back, and pretends not to hear Jason’s snort. 

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/119033269624/you-be-the-anchor)


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